The Epitaph of Colonel Procyon
Procyon listened to the loam and underbrush rustling behind him. Slowly, without turning around, he notched an arrow to his bow.
- “Ah noo ‘tis yoo Adhera.” He stated flatly in his wide northern accent. Ssssssssthunk! The mountain hare turned faster than the eye could follow, firing his arrow all in one fluid movement. Adhera stood up from the bushes, wooden training sword in paw.
- “Darn! You get me every time…” the mouse-maid grumbled as she brushed herself off, pulling the foxtail tipped practice arrow off her clothing.
- “We better head bauck.” Procyon decided, shouldering his long-bow over his black tunic. Through the trees and down the path from whence they came, they marched. The sun drifted down below the horiz…
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